Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

window. A sound like an ice cream cone dropping on the sidewalk as the bullet passed through her chest. And then the
thock
of the slug hitting the door frame behind her.
    A fine mist of blood started to fill the room.
    Gables took a step backward and looked down at her chest as her arms dropped to her sides. The gun made a dull sound when it hit the carpet.
    She glanced up at Bosch with a confused look. In a strained voice she asked her last question.
    “What was the word?”
    She then dropped to the floor.
    Staying below the level of the file cabinets, Bosch left the desk and came around to her on the floor. He slid the gun out of reach and looked down at her eyes. He knew there was nothing he could do. The bullet had exploded her heart.
    “You bastards!” he yelled. “I didn’t say it! I didn’t say the word!”
    Gables closed her eyes and Bosch thought she was gone.
    “We’re clear!” he said. “Suspect is ten-seven. Repeat, suspect is ten-seven. Weapons, stand down.”
    He started to get up but saw that Gables had opened her eyes.
    “Nine,” she whispered, blood coming up on her lips.
    Bosch leaned down to her.
    “What?”
    “I killed nine.”
    She nodded and then closed her eyes again. He knew that this time she was gone, but he nodded anyway.

LEVERAGE
    BY MIKE COOPER
    I was counting on that pension.” Joe Beeker looked up from his hands, knuckled together in his lap. “I need the money.”
    “We all need money,” said the lawyer. He was younger than Joe, but so was everyone nowadays. He clacked at the silver laptop sitting open on his desk. “Doesn’t mean they have to give it to you. The bankruptcy wiped out their obligations.”
    “I worked there thirty-seven years.” And Joe knew he was marked from those decades: scarred fingers; flash burns on his arms; a small, weathered scar right under one eye. “On the line, mostly, and maintenance. Overtime every single week. You could look up my pay stubs.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    The office was small and undecorated, its window open to the parking lot off Mill Street. Humid summer air coming through the window oppressed the room rather than cooling it.
    “I’ll lose the house,” said Joe softly.
    “You’ll get Social Security.” The lawyer was trying to be helpful, Joe knew that. The youngster’s tie was still snug at his throat, even if he’d rolled his cuffs back in the heat. He studied the computer screen for a moment. “And it looks like you’ve been at the same address for nearly four decades. Surely the mortgage is paid off by now?”
    “We bought in 1972. Right after I got out of the service, with a VA loan. Marjo loved that house.”
    “And property taxes are certainly low around here.”
    “I had to take another mortgage.” Joe looked away from the lawyer’s disappointed sigh. “When Marjo got the cancer.”
    “Oh.” The lawyer’s sigh turned into a cough. “Insurance?”
    “It wasn’t enough.” Joe shook his head. “I’m not complaining. She needed the nurse at home all those months. And the hospice. That’s okay.”
    “I don’t see anything in the file.”
    “She …” Joe felt his voice trail away. “Three weeks ago.”
    “I’m sorry,” the lawyer said again. The fourth time since Joe had sat down.
    “At least she didn’t have to see me laid off. That would have killed her —” Joe stopped abruptly. “Never mind.”
    “Do your children … ?”
    “We never had any.” Another old wound.
    “Oh.” The lawyer fussed a moment, then changed the subject. “The company’s new owners are rehiring, I’m told.”
    “New owners?” For the first time, Joe couldn’t keep his anger stopped up. “New owners? It’s the same bastards, far as I can tell. They bought the company cheap, busted every single contract, sold off the inventory — and now they’re starting up again. Yeah, they’re rehiring. That’s right. You know what they’re paying? Six-fifty-three an hour. That’s only one dollar more than I
started
at in 1974!”
    “It’s not quite that simple —”
    “And you know what? I might have to take it, if I don’t get the pension. I might have to take that fucking slop-hauler’s wage, even though it’s one-fourth what I was making a month ago, because I need to eat. I’m going to lose the house, probably get a boarding room over in Railton, listen to the bikers gunning their engines all night. But I need to fucking eat.”
    “I understand how you feel.”
    “No, you don’t.”